


Side Hustles

by manic_intent



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Christmas prompts, M/M, That no powers AU where Wade decides to run a food truck, because the money is better in a flatlining economy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 20:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Wade’s faith in reality was badly shaken the day he realized that he could make more money running a food truck than he could as a mercenary. If that wasn’t depressing, Wade told Dopinder, he wasn’t sure what was.“The war in Yemen? Climate change? Global politics?” Dopinder said.





	Side Hustles

**Author's Note:**

> 2/3 of my Holiday season prompts. @illusionarypandemonium asked for a Cablepool Chef AU hahaha. Not entirely sure if they meant an AU involving the Chef film, but since I’ve already done that for Thilbo, I’m going to do something else for Cablepool. Will still involve a food truck though. Inspired by the art of a friend of a friend: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/zo6oL. No powers, no time travel.

Wade’s faith in reality was badly shaken the day he realized that he could make more money running a food truck than he could as a mercenary. If that wasn’t depressing, Wade told Dopinder, he wasn’t sure what was. 

“The war in Yemen? Climate change? Global politics?” Dopinder said. 

“The what now?” Wade paused in the middle of goopily mixing together an eye-watering blend of hot sauce and Mystery Ingredients, aka whatever smelled good to him from the last bodega. Wade liked bodegas. 

“Depressing, Mister Wilson,” Dopinder said brightly. Dopinder was the New Minion, a taxi driver that Wade had side-graded into a multi-purpose minion: driver, wait staff, cashier, and line cook all at once. 

“What’s depressing?”

“You said you weren’t sure what was depressing, Mister Wilson!” Unfortunately, multitasking also tended to make Dopinder radiate a can-do attitude with a vengeance, which in turn often depressed Wade further. 

“Never mind.” Wade poured in a couple of bags of pop rocks and watched the goopy mixture turn a chemical shade of radioactive with glee. “Today’s menu.”

“Yes!” Dopinder scrambled for a notebook. 

Wade tasted the mixture, which kicked him in the teeth and proceeded to clear out his sinuses. “Aaah. Yes. That’s it. Liquefied Unicorn ‘changa, we’ll call it. Break out the food dyes. It’ll go down good with our Yer What Mate and our Roadkill Express.” 

Dopinder was carefully printing the new menu in blocky letters on their signboard when the stranger loped over. Dopinder had tucked them into one of their favourite spots, a concrete lot near a park, a bodega, and a couple of dive bars. Neighbourhood wasn’t the greatest but people tended to show up nowadays wherever they showed up. Some days Wade tried to make a game of it. Hole up under a bridge or somewhere far off the beaten track and illegal. Let Dopinder post a #TruckView on social media and see how long it took customers to show up. Their record was forty minutes, when they’d parked down a tunnel in an abandoned stretch of the subway. The queue had snaked out so long for that one that the police came over to turf them out. 

Wade leaned out of the truck as the stranger slowed down to look at the board. “We’re not open yet, so git,” Wade called. 

“I see that,” the stranger said. He wasn’t as tall as Wade, but he was broadly made, all of it muscle. Old man, though Wade couldn’t quite pick out his age. Probably a veteran. He wore an eye patch over his left eye and had a silver prosthetic left arm. Khaki shirt, dark jeans. Silver hair. Handsome, if you went for the scarred and square-jawed sort. Not as handsome as Wade himself, but the stranger wasn’t the protagonist anyway. “Thought I’d wait.” 

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” Wade said, because he had a pretty good memory for faces and a damned good memory for silver foxes. 

“You haven’t,” said the stranger, and leaned a hip against the nearest patch of wall in the shade, folding his arms and watching them. Wade eyeballed him for a bit, but when it didn’t work he went back to stirring the now-colourful goop. He kept an eye on the stranger and kept at least one hand close to the pistol he’d taped under the kitchen bench. 

Dopinder scrawled out the rest of the menu and scurried back into the kitchen to hide, unnerved by the stranger’s stare. “Maybe he’s the IRS,” Dopinder stage-whispered.

“Them? Doubt they’ve got the funding under the current Administration to chase after small businesses like me.” Silver linings and all that. Wade nudged Dopinder with a foot. “C’mon. The veggies aren’t gonna chop themselves. If he tries to rob us I’ll just shoot him a few times. Then we can add him to the Roadkill… _kidding_ ,” Wade said, as Dopinder shot him a horrified look. “He’s probably too stringy.” 

The stranger ordered a Roadkill Express, probably because he’d heard. He ate slowly and thoughtfully, without taking any pictures. Then he bought a Unicorn to go and left. Somehow, the entire process had turned out so unnerving that Wade reached automatically for his gun when Dopinder cleared his throat.

“Maybe he didn’t like it,” Dopinder said, with the sweet-natured obliviousness of the almost-murdered. 

“Why’d he buy a second one if he didn’t like it?” Wade scowled. “That’s it. We’re retiring this spot. Too easy to find. Actually, we should retire this spot right _now_. And park. Over there.” He pointed at the roof of a strip club. 

Dopinder followed the direction of Wade’s finger and grimaced. “I don’t think we can physically or legally do that, Mister Wilson.” 

“Perfect.”

#

Wade had been busy complimenting Dopinder on finding their latest stop when the stranger loped under the raised roller door. The old warehouse had a gutted roof and the ground had long been grown over with grass and weeds, which was probably why it didn’t stink of old piss. Not that even that put off Wade’s regulars. People were funny sometimes.

Dopinder stared as the stranger wandered over to a crate and sat down. “I haven’t even posted anything to Instagram,” he said. 

Wade looked from the stranger to a giant scrawl of a penis, drawn in hot pink. He sighed. He kinda liked the vibe of this place. Didn’t want to move, even if part of its appeal had just been reduced. “Get started on the spice rub,” he told Dopinder, and swung out of the van. The stranger looked up as Wade loped over. “Are you following us around?” Wade asked. 

“Obviously,” said the stranger.

Wade scowled. “Got a name?” 

“Nate.” 

“Look, Nate. There’s a law against stalking.” 

“And if you’d read it you’d know this isn’t stalking.” Nate looked amused. Asshole. Stayed amused, too, even after Wade gave up trying to shake him down for info and stormed off to get started on the roast. Smiled when Wade named one of the dailies after him. Nate ate a Goddamned Fucking Stalker on the spot and walked off with a Yo’ Momma. 

“Don’t think he’s on any of the groups or tags,” Dopinder said in a placating tone, as he flicked through his phone. People were still slowly trickling in, cooing and taking selfies. 

“I’m thinking not.” Nate hadn’t taken any photos of the place or the food. Granted, he didn’t look like the sort who was into that kinda bragging rights. 

“Do you want to move?” Dopinder asked. He looked deflated.

“Nah. Concentrate on shifting product. Then we go over every inch of our stuff with a scanner.”

#

Wade tamped down on the urge to reach for a gun when Nate hopped down from the top of the old boardwalk and walked through the sand to where they were parked under the rotting jetty. “Pretty sure we weren’t followed,” Wade said as he got close. “You psychic or what?”

“Your truck’s hardly unnoticeable,” Nate said. Which was, okay, maybe a little true. 

“Red stuff goes faster,” Wade muttered. He tried to feel a little annoyed and found himself mystified instead. A little curious, even. This guy was good. Wade had honed his ability to lose tails and slip surveillance in the uglier parts of the world. When he’d been pro he’d been one of the best, if he could say so himself. Nate didn’t feel like an enemy. 

Leaving Dopinder to deal with the spice mix, Wade took a couple of cold beers from the cooler and ambled over, tossing Nate a bottle. Nate walked down along the surf with Wade when Wade beckoned. “Do I know you?” Wade asked. 

“Probably not,” Nate said. 

“Did I try to kill you before or something?” 

“Couple of times,” Nate said, and smiled with no hostility. 

“I don’t think I ever took any Army contracts. Or Corps.” 

“Wasn’t either of those.” 

“Your arm and your eye? Did I do any of that?”

Nate shook his head. “Was like this when I was born.” He flexed his prosthetic arm. Wade whistled. Nate hadn’t moved the arm before. 

“That’s some sweet tech right there.” Also meant Nate definitely wasn’t Army or Marines. Didn’t look like a Blackwater man. Which meant some other gig, one of any that Wade could’ve run up against over the course of his career. “You here because you got hard feelings?”

“Do I look like I do?” 

“Don’t know what you do,” Wade said, tipping back some beer.

“You’re a good cook,” Nate said slowly, as though he still couldn’t believe it. 

“I’m a fucking _great_ cook, thank you. Hey. You one of them uh, Mickey inspectors?” 

“ _Michelin_ ,” Dopinder called from the truck.

“Shut up and marinate, minion!” Wade yelled back. Nate shook his head. “Food critic? Social media influencer?”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Nate said. He finished his beer in decisive, easy gulps. Wade liked that in a guy. “Just thought I recognised you in the van. I was passing by.”

“The Brooklyn spot?” At Nate’s nod, Wade sniffed. “Yeah, always thought that one was too easy. So what do you want?”

“I’ve got what I want,” Nate said, because that didn’t sound creepy at fucking all. Wade eyeballed him through the rest of prep and made sure to put a few extra peppers in Nate’s chimichanga when he handed it over. Nate ate without complaint and, disappointingly, without any visible bowel disruption, ordered one to go, and left. 

“Huh,” Dopinder said. “I guess I see it.”

“What?” 

“He likes you.”

“Bullshit.”

Dopinder looked at Wade, surprised. “Why is it bullshit, please?”

“Life isn’t a Bollywood movie.”

“I see that, Mister Wilson. Because life has sex and nobody falls in love by running around a tree,” Dopinder said earnestly. As was the case with many conversations involving Dopinder, this was going quickly off the rails. Wade rubbed a hand slowly over his face. 

“Maybe I should shoot him.”

“That’s murder, Mister Wilson.” 

“And?”

Dopinder looked taken aback. “It’s… illegal?” 

“Yes?” 

“You’d be arrested and I’d have to go back to being a taxi driver.”

“…And?” 

“You’d lose the truck and have to go back to a life of competing for contract work, not being paid for expenses, while having to give Weasel a big cut out of your earnings,” Dopinder said sadly. 

Wade deflated. “Maybe we should just do that thing. The legal thing. Restraining order.” 

Dopinder wrinkled his nose. “Doesn’t that cost money? A few hundred dollars? And he isn’t stalking you.”

“A few hundred dollars? Shitweasels. I could buy a _gun_ for a few hundred dollars. Several guns. And he is _too_ stalking me.” 

“You’re afraid of him?”

“No, why?” Wade frowned at Dopinder. “Are _you_ scared of him?”

“No. There you go, Mister Wilson. If you’re not afraid of him and he isn’t causing us any harm, it’s not stalking. I Googled the law when Mister Nate said you should look it up.” Dopinder beamed. “My mother always said, if a man bothers you and bothers you, just take his money and laugh.” 

Take the money and laugh. “Your mother is a wise woman,” Wade said. 

Dopinder nodded solemnly. “When she divorced my father, she sued him for everything but the shirt off his back. And then she remarried a rich man and moved to the Bahamas, leaving my father, sister, and I to live in poverty.” 

Wade patted Dopinder approvingly on the shoulder. “Like I just said. A wise woman.”

#

“I knew it was just a fad,” Wade said. Other than Nate and a handful of die-hard customers, they hadn’t had much business for days.

“The drive-by shooting didn’t help.” Dopinder looked gloomy. “I guess that last #TruckView was in a bad location, Mister Wilson.” 

“Chasing down the drive-by shooters in the truck and shooting them in turn probably didn’t do much for our PR, on hindsight.” People were weird that way. You’d think they’d give Wade props for follow-on catering service, but nooo. Today they’d even parked somewhere safe. Boring. Full view of busy streets. Nada. 

Just as Wade got bored enough to call it a day, a pack of burly, tattooed men in leather jackets and mohawks strode up to the van. Wade glanced up, irritated, then blinked. “Slab? What are you boys doing here?”

Slab looked uncharacteristically nervous. “We heard you was selling.”

“Selling?” Wade asked.

“The goods! Selling goods,” Slab said, lowering his voice and looking around shiftily. “C’mon, man.”

“What.” Wade glanced at Dopinder. “Did you tell Instagram we were selling drugs or something?”

“No, Mister Wilson!” Dopinder had flattened himself to the fridge. 

Thankfully, before Wade could think of a way to gently tell Slab that he was in no way selling crack, Slab ran his eyes over the day’s menu. “I’ll have a Lifelong Disappointment,” Slab said. “Uh, extra cheese.” 

Understanding dawned. “You guys want to _eat_?” Wade asked.

“Yes?” Slab looked bewildered.

“…Okay.” Money was money, and business was slow.

Several chimichangas after, Slab burped, satisfied. “Wilson, I always thought you were a dick. But you’re a damned good cook.” The others nodded in agreement. One guy missing half his ear even gave Wade a thumbs-up from the back.

“Thanks, boys.” Wade smiled. 

“I’ll get the others to swing by tomorrow. That one-eyed bastard was right after all.” Slab turned to go.

“Wait, what? What one-eyed bastard?” Wade asked. A suspicion sank in. “Silver arm, too?”

Slab looked back. “You know that guy? He barged right into the bar. Told us all to head here. Or else.” 

Wade rubbed at his temples. “And you guys listened to him?”

“Well, Andy tried to punch him out,” Slab said, “and that’s why he’s in hospital instead of here. But that’s totally OK. Turns out the one-eyed guy was right and Andy was wrong. We respect side hustles in the Angel Death gang, we do. And. You’re fucking good. So we’ll be back. Keep on keeping, Wilson.” 

“Thanks, Slab.” Wade watched Slab and his boys roll off, blinking slowly. 

“Looks like Nate did us a favour,” Dopinder said, if from the relative safety of the doorway. 

“Silence, minion.”

#

Nate lived in a tiny death trap of an apartment in Brooklyn, one that was easily accessible through a fire escape. Window wasn’t even properly locked. Oddly, Nate didn’t look particularly surprised when Wade pulled himself into the living room, though a furtive movement against the throw pillows indicated that Nate had probably just stashed a handgun of some sort.

“Could’ve knocked,” Nate said. 

“Eh, the window wasn’t locked.” Wade gestured at the discoloured glass.

“On the front door,” Nate clarified.

“No fun in that.” Wade slouched into an armchair. “Got a beer?” 

Nate stared at him for a moment, then ambled towards his fridge. Wade took the opportunity to have a closer look around. It was a neatly appointed apartment, everything buttoned down and in its place. Kinda sparse, even. There was a photo of a woman and a little girl on a shelf, though the apartment clearly belonged to a bachelor and Nate wasn’t wearing any wedding rings. Nate passed him a cold beer on his way back and sat down on the couch. 

“Thanks,” Wade said.

“For?”

“Getting Slab and the others to come over.” Word had spread. Business wasn’t as good as it was, but it was enough to keep Wade afloat. 

“Not a problem,” Nate said. “You’re pretty good. Business will be back up to usual sooner or later.” 

“Thing is, I still don’t get you. If I’d tried to kill you before, why are you still helping me out? Are you just a serious chimichanga aficionado or something?” Wade asked facetiously.

“Nah.” Nate drank another swig of beer, then looked Wade over and smirked when Wade raised his eyebrows. “Food isn’t too bad. View’s even better.” On his next swig of beer, Nate’s mouth lingered on the bottle, wet and slick.

Ah. “Now I get it!”

Nate snorted. “Jesus.” 

“How was I supposed to know? You could’ve _said_.” Wade took a gulp of his beer and set it on the coffee table. Hell, the view he had now wasn’t too bad either, come to think of it. And it’d been a while since he’d had the time or inclination for intimacy. Nate didn’t budge when Wade walked over, though he put his beer aside when Wade straddled his lap and set his hands on Nate’s broad shoulders. “Just so you know, even if you get a freebie from me now, I expect you to remain a loyal customer.” Wade winked. 

“Don’t you worry about that.” Nate chuckled, rubbing his palms up Wade’s thighs to his hips as Wade leaned in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> \--  
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com


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